Page 25 of Power Play Pursuit

I guess I do that sometimes. Instead of answering, I just groan and continue back to the locker room.

“Okay. Now I’m positive something is wrong. You sound like Wally, man,” Hawthorne’s deep voice shouts behind me.

“Hey! What did I bloody do now?” grumbles Wilcott, who’s sitting in his stall, taking his gear off.

“We’re worried about Adler. He’s gone to the dark side with you,” Beaumont says, throwing his gloves on the bench.

“Is it because we’re playing the Sharks tonight?” Miles asks. At the mention of our rival team, I ball my fists at my sides. “We’ve got this, bro,” he continues. “We’ll get them.”

I nod. “We have to.”

“We will,” Hawthorne agrees,slapping my back as he passes my stall.

When I step back into the arena for tonight’s game, I’m as tense as ever. The guys have stopped bothering me, attributing my heightened focus to the first derby of the season. Their explanation isn’t wrong, but also not entirely true. I haven’t told them the other, bigger reason because I want Rogers to myself, and I know they’d be in his face the second he hits the ice if they knew what happened. Plus, we can’t have everyone in the penalty box at once. The first blow is mine. They can follow suit.

“Soccer time?” Beaumont asks, juggling the ball as he enters the gym.

I nod as I step off the treadmill. Playing with the guys before a game is a great way to both release the pressure and pass the time while keeping our bodies warm. I trail after him until we meet up with Hawthorne, Kraz, Johnson, Miles, and Wally. It’s pretty much the only pre-game activity Wilcott participates in. He usually just broods in silence on the bench. But he’s British, and soccer is in his blood. His brother is actually a top player in the UK—or so I’ve heard.

The game we play iscalled two-touch, which means the ball can be touched only twice before it hits the ground. We play in a circle, and the first person who loses the ball is out. We keep going until only one man remains.

After that, it’s time to hop back on the bikes and strap on our pre-game skates. I do a short on-ice practice, because every time I skate toward the center of the ice, I see Rogers’ stupid smug face, and I want to bash it with my stick. I try to focus on completing my warm-ups and keep my gaze on my side of the rink.

We retreat to the locker rooms, and one of the guys plays the “Baby Shark” tune on his phone. Everyone relaxes and laughs, singing along and changing the lyrics to how bad we’re going to beat them tonight—most of the new lyrics being my invention.

I’m still getting weird looks from Miles and Hawthorne, so I plaster a smile on my face and focus on getting ready.

Finally, Coach strides into the locker room, and we all sit down.

“Let’s do this, gentlemen. You know it’s going to be a tough one. Just be tougher, okay? They’re going to get physical. Be ready for that, and keep yourselves out of the box. Do everything right, but don’t leave them any room to breathe. Short but intense shifts. Let’s go,” he adds, and everyone claps as he hands me the starting lineup sheet.

I stand up and walk to the centerof the room, my tone serious. “Okay, boys. We got Beaumont, Cap, and me in the front, Johnson and Miles in the back, and Wally kicking in the cage. Let’s do this.”

13

"Touch her again, and I will end you."

James Adler

We skate into position for the first face-off of the night. And because he’s a winger, just like me, Lucas Rogers is just inches away.

I keep my eyes trained on him, the annoying glint in his eyes only fueling my anger. I know Elizabeth is in the stands tonight, but I don’t allow myself even a fleeting glance. Right now, Rogers has my full attention.

I throw off my gloves the second the puck drops and launch myself at him. My attack takes him by surprise, but he retaliates fast. “What, not enough to have my leftovers, Adler? Now you want a piece of me too?” he sneers, and I punch him right in the face.

The referees are quick to end the fight. Too quick. My wrath is nowhere near unleashed yet, but I’m forced to skate to the penalty box, my fists clenched and chest heaving.

Those five minutes feel like five hours. And when my time is up, Coach is waiting on the bench, red-faced and yelling at me. His words barely register—something about keeping my head in the game and not letting him get to me. But Rogers has it in for me too and keeps coming after me. So naturally, I return fire. He’s skating along the boards when I line him up, pure instinct taking over. When I crush him into the glass with everything I’ve got, the impact reverberates through my body like the recoil of a gun. He slumps forward, momentarily stunned, but then he speeds off. The grin plastered on his face stokes the fires of my mounting frustration.

We’re nearing the end of the first period, and with zero goals scored, we’re all a little on edge. I dig my skates into the ice, going hard after the puck. Miles snatches it from the Sharks’ center and sends it flying, so I hurry after it. It’s just me and Rogers, and I’m not letting him get possession of it. I’m ahead of him, only a few feet from the puck. I extend my stick and take control ofit, but then I feel a sharp hit in the middle of the back. I’m propelled forward, my head smashing into the boards.

Everything gets loud around me, with players hitting each other and cursing. Then, it’s all quiet. And blurry.

I want to tell them I’m fine, that they can stop. Heck, I want to get in on the fight, but when I try to stand up, I fall backward.

Something warm rolls along my cheeks, followed by an intense pain in my face. And then, nothing. Before long, my headache overwhelms me, and there’s a ringing in my ears. I open my eyes to see the docs kneeling down beside me.

“Do you know where you are?” asks Clark, one of our team docs.

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